IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


XL      Ui 

"^  lis  lllllio 


2.5 

III 


1.8 


11.25 

U, 

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■« 6"    

► 

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7 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

(Corporation 


23  WBST  MAIN  SV'^56T 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


l/.A 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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CIHIVI/ICMH 
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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  at  cibliographiques 


The 
tot 


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n 


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poa 
oft 
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Ori| 
beg 
the 
sioi 
oth 
firs 
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ori 


The 
sha 
TIN 
whi 

Mai 
diff 
enti 
beg 
rigli 
reqi 
mei 


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dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
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symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


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Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmfo  6  des  taux  de  reduction  diff Arents. 
Lorsque  Ie  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  11  est  film*  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
iiiustrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

6 

6 

■ 


SORROW 


■/■ttr^*'g^jt^:iw«^a^j>Mriif.n»titt-^'^:#^';gaaiM 


W 


m^  fnn'intwiii 


■!-i-mm'.^sm!t^'^^ 


'■«ifr3?'!<;-?5^*« 


Sorrow 

and 

Old  Friends 


By 

W.  A.  Frazer 
Author  of'MooswcC* 


Philadelphia 
Henry  Altemus  Company 


-^^nMMtariHWMMkH 


AS 

1^ 


Copyright  1896  by  Henry  Altemua. 


I^O'U 


.i. 

t..X-A 

^vv-^* 

G 

4 

"!«-*■ 


SORROW. 

IT  was  summer.    The  hot  sun  glazed 
the  white  road  golden-yellow.  The 
shadows  thrown  across  it  reflected 
blue  from  the  cloudless  sky.    Across  the 
little  picket  fence  the  purple  and  white 
lilacs  drowsily  kissed  the  lazy  air  with 
their  perfumed  breath ;  slow-winged  bees 
droned  sleepily  and  sucked  leisurely  at  the 
lilac  nectar.    It  was  summer.    The  birds 
sang  it,  the  trees  whispered  it. 

A  blind  man,  led  by  a  little  boy,  came 
waveringlyup  the  road.  Opposite  the  lilacs 


SORROW 

he  stopped,  raised  his  head  and  took  a 
great  deep  draught  of  the  perfumed  air. 
It  filled  his  lungs  and  spread  his  chest,  as 
the  wide-spread  nostrils  drank  it  in.  The 
birds,  startled  by  his  appearance,  twit- 
tered and  chided  him  for  intruding. 

He  put  the  heel  of  a  time-browned  vio- 
lin under  his  chin  and  drew  the  bow  trem- 
ulously across  the  eager  strings.  The 
wailing  notes  jostled  their  way  over  the 
lilacs,  elbowing  the  droning  of  the  bees 
and  the  silly  twitter  of  the  birds,  and 
glided  through  an  open  window. 

Dot  heard  it ;  and  a  little  battered  doll 
tumbled  recklessly  to  the  floor  as  she 

8 


...,.««»«..>* -«»wmi*<-.v*^»-<.'--.^w-'^-ra»T^--r-^™^'-'''^^^ 


SORROW 

jumped  up  clapping  her  tiny  hands  with 

delight. 

"Moosic,  Mudder !"  she  said.   The  doll 
looked  up,  filled  with  pathetic  resentment, 
but  Dot  didn't  mind;  dolls  were  all  very 
well  for  a  general  engagement,  hut  music 
was  the  soul  of  things;  it  cut  out  the 
whole  world  with  Dot. 

"I  don't  want  to  play  in  your  yard," 
sang  the  violin;  and  the  birds  stared  stu- 
pidly at  this  strange-voiced  creature  that 
hushed  their  timid  lay  with  its  strident 

song. 

-Here^s  a  penny/*  said  Dot's  mother, 

"give  it  to  the  man." 


.-wiwasaBifwwiiis^ssaaaai 


1 


SORROW 

The  little  girl  danced  down  the  gravel 
path  and  pushed  her  way  through  the 
lilacs  out  onto  the  walk.  Then  she  stop- 
ped suddenly— shyly— she  had  seen  the 
little  boy. 

The  music  had  called  to  her— it  was  a 
friend,  even  the  birds  were  not  afraid  of 
it— but  a  boy,  that  was  something  for  ser- 
ious consideration. 

Dot  stood  irresolutely  turning  the  pen- 
ny over  and  over  with  timid  nervousness. 
Resolve  darted  her  forward,  and  almost 
before  she  knew  it  she  had  dropped  the 
coin  in  the  little  brown  paw  of  the  lad. 

That  was  the  beginning.     She  backed 


10 


[mn!Hi,i9'>.."iw  mr.iwiww 


S    O    R   R    O   'W 

up  two  steps  and  sighed  contentedly.  The 
music  whispered-reassuringly;  so  she  lis- 
tened with  the  birds  and  the  lilacs  and  the 
drowsy-eared  trees  and  looked  into  the 
big  brown  Italian  eyes  of  the  boy,  and 

saw  that  he  was  only  a  little  boy. 
The  next  time  the  fiddler    came   she 

spoke  to  him.    The  pair  came  often  after 

that. 

The  blind  fiddler,  the  brown-eyed  boy, 

a  golden-haired  little  girl,  a  penny  and 
the  music.    Rather  a  simple  group. 

The  player's  face  had  always  been 
plain.  When  God  had  closed  the  win- 
dows of  his  soul  and  shut  out  the  light,  it 

II 


pHttSaM^nM**'-^'' 


SORROW 

had  grown  plainer,  but  that  made  no  dif- 
ference. 

The  little  meetings  came  oftener,  the 
birds  sang  blither,  the  sun  shone  gentler, 
the  lilacs  saved  up  their  fragrance  for  the 
music  days,  and  the  bees  droned  happier 
when  Dot  and  her  friends  met. 

Then  many  days  went  by  and  the  fid- 
dler did  not  come.  Dot  waited  and  count- 
ed the  days  and  asked  her  mother  why ; 
and  something  had  gone  out  of  the  sum- 
mer. 

There  were  three  weeks  like  this  and 
then  one  day  the  violin  sent  a  sigh  up  the 
gravel  walk  and  Dot  heard  it.    She  skip- 
id 


\ 


■UPPP 


■■■^iHP^^.^^WBIIP'^TP^^ra 


Vi 


SORROW 

ped  eagerly  out  to  the  old  music  trysting 
place.     The  man  was  alone. 

*  Where's  'oor  little  boy?"  she  asked. 
"He's  dead,"  the  blind  man  answered, 
and  the  bow  pulled  heavily  at  the  discor- 
dant strings. 

"Won't  he  tum  any  more?"  Dot  asked, 
trying  to  understand  the  great  something 
that  was  not  of  the  music,  nor  of  dolls, 
nor  of  anything  she  knew. 

The  man  stopped  playing,  searched 
about  in  the  dead  air  with  his  wavering 
fingers  until  he  found  the  curly  head,  and 
as  his  hand  rested  there  for  an  instant, 
answered,  "No,  Pietro  won't  come  any 

more." 

13 


SORROW 

That  was  all;  but  some  of  the  know- 
ledge of  the  emptiness  of  the  world  came 
to  Dot.  The  leaves  whispered  it  and  the 
lilacs  breathed  it,  and  she  went  into  the 
house,  and,  taking  the  little  battered  doll 
in  her  arms,  cried,  and  cried,  and  by-and- 
by  fell  asleep  on  the  floor. 

After  many  days  the  player  came  again, 
and  stopped  at  the  lilacs  in  front  of  Num- 
ber 7.  The  violin  called,  and  whispered, 
and  sang,  and  stopped,  and  called  again, 
but  Dot  did  not  come.  A  man  walking 
briskly  by,  stopped,  looked  at  the  house, 
and  touched  the  player  on  the  arm. 
**Don't  you  see  there  is  crape  on  the 


14 


mmmww^^ 


"^HHB^™ 


SORROW 

(loor—white  crape!"  he  said  reproach- 
fully. "Pardon  me,"  he  added  hastily,  as 
the  player  turned  his  face,  and  he  saw  that 
he  was  blind.    "I  did  not  know— forgive 


me. 

The  blind  man  moved  vacantly  a  few 
steps,  and  sat  down  brokenly  on  the  edge 
of  the  walk.  He  sat  there  a  long  time, 
the  plain,  shaggy  head  drooped  hopeless- 
ly on  his  breast. 

**God  takes  all  the  flowers,"  he  mut- 
tered ;  **all  the  sweet  young  flowers,  and 
leaves  a  ragged  weed  like  me.  Oh,  Pietro, 
Pietro !  why  can't  I  go  too.  I  am  blind 
and  tired — " 


XS 


:'^??^f^.'s-T*r:'"r^ 


':jiMW<*,A 


SORROW 

"Come,  move  on,"  a  rough  voice  said, 
and  a  policeman  shook  him  by  the  should- 
er. He  got  up,  moved  aimlessly  a  little 
distance,  and  when  the  heavy  steps  of  the 
officer  died  out  he  went  back  and  sat  down 
again,  and  waited. 

He  was  listening  for  something — 
watching  with  his  ears.  "Perhaps  they'll 
come  to-day,"  he  muttered,  and  waited. 

At  last  there  was  the  sound  of  wheels 
—heavy,  muffled  wheels.  He  knew  what 
that  meant.  He  counted — one,  two — a 
dozen ;  always  the  same  slow  solemn  roll 
of  heavy  wheels,  and  always  hushed  at 
the  same  place;  just  where  he  used  to 

i6 


,0m^'' 


SORROW 

play ;  where  Pietro  and  the  little  girl  used 
to  chatter;  where  the  silly  birds  mocked 
him,  and  the  leaves  whispered,  and  the 
lilacs  shed  their  perfume. 

He  rose  up,  and  going  close  to  the  gate, 
stood  with  bared  head.  Somebody  pass- 
ing dropped  a  coin  in  the  hat.  He  threw 
it  far  out  into  the  dusty  road. 

He  could  hear  the  people  going  in  and 
coming  out. 

At  last  there  was  the  shuffling  sound  of 
many  feet  moving  together — something 
was  being  carried. 

The  blind  man  stepped  forward  and 
raised  his  hand.     The  bearers  stopped. 


17 


r^iS*>^i-^rii._:e:K'^^^iX'f*'^^^r<X^':'^^^^ 


SORROW 

The  blind  man  felt  his  way  reverently 
until  his  hand  touched  something  hard 
and  polished  and  cold. 

The  plain  face  drooped  lower  and  low- 
er, the  heavy  lips  rested  for  an  instant 
softly,  gently,  on  the  casket.  Then  the 
stooped  figure  straightened  up— turned — 
passed  through  the  gate  and  slowly  up 
the  walk,  feeling  its  poor  blind  way  with 
the  stick. 

The  carriages  rolled  away — the  lilac 
bushes  were  bare — the  birds  had  ceased  to 
sing — there  was  no  sunlight — for  it  was 
autumn. 

Even  the  great  house  was  silent. 


i3 


OLD  FRIENDS. 

WHEN  God  closed  out  the  lives  of 
little  Peter  Neuman's  parents, 
and  they  both  lay  silent  and  at 
rest  in  the  square,  white,  picket-fenced 
burying  ground  in  the  east  end  of  Pet- 
rolea,  it  really  looked  as  though  no  lieu- 
tenant had  been  left  to  look  after  the  boy. 
To  Pete,  schooling,  and  training,  and 
culture,  were  vague,  unmeaning  terms. 
They  were  as  strange  as  the  names  of 
extinct  animals.  Food  was  the  most  en- 
grossing, terrible  word  in  the  whole  vo- 
cabulary of  life. 


21 


r^-      ■.  -.v.- 


.  -^^f  "■ 


OLD      FRIENDS 

That  was  what  he  had  been  born  for,  to 
struggle  for  food.  It  was  a  bitter  strug- 
gle, too,  and  the  boy  was  capable  of  so 
much — the  "so  much"  might  be  for  good 
or  for  evil. 

Just  as  the  young  life  was  travelling 
evil- ward,  the  pastor  of  the  Baptist 
Church  stretched  out  his  hand  and  his 
heart  and  drew  the  waif  a  little  to  one 
side. 

It  needed  so  little,  too,  at  first ;  and  then 
afterward,  with  watchfulness,  Peter  never 
looked  longingly  over  the  hedge  at  the 
road  he  had  been  drawn  away  from. 

In  those  days  four  churches  stood  side 


t2 


!%?r™*;'- 


^t}r^;-»«'^i.f^.i';»  t-_^^4«tvi'  .■•■-I 


'rWtwTOWJ^Sffl 


OLD      FRIENDS 

by  side  in  the  low  flat  which  separated  the 
eastern  half  of  the  town  from  the  west- 
ern ;  plain,  frame  buildings,  all  of  them — 
small  and  unpretentious. 

They  were  raised  ten  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  the  sidewalk  and  road  ran 
across  the  whole  stretch  of  the  flat  at  the 
same  level.  The  spring  floods  made  this 
necessary. 

Little  Pete  grew  strong  physically  be- 
cause of  the  work  among  the  oil  wells; 
and  his  health,  morally,  was  superb  be- 
cause of  the  little  pine-boarded  church, 
and  the  stoop-shouldered  pastor  who  ever 
kept  his  eye  on  the  orphan  boy. 

23 


OLD      FRIENDS 


When  Pete  was  out  of  work  the  min- 
ister, Mr.  Grant,  saw  that  he  got  employ- 
ment again.  When  his  fresh  young  spirits 
were  groping  about  in  the  dark  for  food 
for  the  mind,  Grant  saw  that  the  food 
was  healthy. 

It  was  a  simple,  uneventful  country- 
life  episode.  "I  am  the  keeper  of  my 
brother's  child,"  the  minister  said  by  his 
acts;  and  no  doubt  God  approved  of  the 
principle,  though  the  Petrolea  people  were 
far  too  busy  with  the  constantly  recurring 
big  strikes  of  oil  to  pay  much  attention 
to  the  matter.    It  was  probably  the  min- 


52? 


.-■■i:t!^:sn'^^j!:ii'j^:-'2:.L~^ 


!;'  •"'yrrrmi  ■iiiiiiii 


OLD      FRIENDS 

ister's  business  anyway — he  was  always  at 
that  sort  of  thing. 

Then  one  day  Peter  went  away.  There 
were  no  celestial  phenomena  manifested 
over  his  departure.  He  simply  went  out 
in  the  world  to  look  for  the  fortune  that 
is  due  every  boy. 

Peter  had  two  regrets  in  leaving;  he 
would  miss  the  minister,  and  a  knowledge 
that  a  debt  hung  over  the  little  church 
bore  heavy  on  his  mind.  He  made  a  silent 
vow  that  he  would  wipe  it  out  when  he 
got  rich. 

Some  years  after  Minister  Grant  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  a  man  containing  a 


25 


OLD      FRIENDS 

draft  large  enough  to  wipe  out  the  full 
indebtedness  of  the  church,  and  place  it  on 
a  good  worldly  footing. 

The  only  condition  attached  was  that 
they  should  never  part  with  the  old  build- 
ing. .  That  was  made  imperative. 

Also  the  sender  would  feel  much 
obliged  if  the  minister  would  keep  the 
source  from  which  the  money  had  come 
quite  a  secret. 

The  condition  and  the  wish  were  easily 
complied  with — they  had  no  desire  to  part 
with  the  church,  and  as  the  sender  of  the 
draft  was  a  stranger  to  Grant  (for  it  did 
not  bear  Peter's  name)  it  saved  him  a 


26 


OLD      FRIENDS 

world  of  trouble,  so  to  speak,  to  keep  it 

dark. 

The  minister  simply  said  that  some- 
body had  sent  him  money  to  pay  the  debt, 
and  stated  the  conditions. 

The  congregation  formed  a  judgment 
division  at  once;  one  half  were  positive 
that  it  was  Mr.  Langton,  a  rich  oil  man, 
who  had  furnished  the  money ;  the  other 
half  declared  it  was  Bredin,  the  nitro- 
glycerine man.  He  was  making  a  for- 
tune shooting  wells,  but,  as  it  was  rather 
a  precarious  business,  his  predecessor  hav- 
ing been  blown  up  the  fourth  month  of 
his  labors,  it  was  almost  certain  that  he 


27 


,..;.X.-. 


OLD      FRIENDS 


I 


I 


was  investing  this  money  as  a  sort  of  re- 
ligious insurance  business. 

Two  or  three  thought  that  it  might  be 
that  "Drinking  Tom"  Burns  had  put  the 
money  in,  for  "a  gusher"  had  been  struck 
on  his  farm,  and  he  was  constantly  on  the 
lookout  for  novel  methods  of  getiing  rid 

of  his  cash. 

The  minister  paid  up  the  uebt  and  said 

never  a  word. 

The  oil  field  grew  and  broadened  out, 
and  wealth  came  to  the  workers  therein. 

The  population  of  the  town  multiplied, 
and  of  course  the  congregations  absorbed 
their  quota  of  the  people. 


28 


OLD      FRIENDS 

Drillers  and  small  oil  men  lived  in  the 
houses  that  had  formerly  been  the  pala- 
tial residences  of  wealthy  operators 
These  latter  had  built  larger  structures  of 
brick  and  stone,  and  their  earlier  homes 
looked  mean  and  wooden  by  comparison. 

The  little  frame  churches  in  the  hollow 
became  hot,  and  stifling,  and  crowded 
with  the  large  congregations  that  grew 
greater  year  by  year. 

First  the  Church  of  England  built  a 
fine  brick  temple,  almost  like  a  cathedral, 
up  in  the  west  end  of  the  town.  Why,  the 
rectory  was  almost  as  fine  as  the  old 
church  in  the  flat.     Then  the  Presbyter- 


29 


OLD      FRIENDS 


I  ' 


lans  deserted  the  old  ground,  and  built  a 
church  of  equal  dimensions. 

And  so,  one  after  another,  until  even 
the  little  Baptist  chapel  that  Minister 
Grant  loved  so  well,  and  from  which  Peter 
had  cleared  the  debt,  became  silent  and 
like  an  organ  from  which  the  music  had 

gone. 

And  all  the  time  hardly  a  Sabbath 
passed  with  Peter  in  his  adopted  land  but 
that  he  thought  of  his  boyhood  friends 
as  worshipping  in  their  old  places  in  the 
little  church. 

He  lived  in  a  great  city,  and  attended 
service  in  a  magnificent  building,  but  his 

30 


■m^u^^i. 


OUT)     FRIENDS 

eyes  saw  it  not.  He  saw  only  the  stooped 
form  of  Minister  Grant,  the  man  who  had 
made  his  life  worth  the  living. 

That  was  the  picture  always  in  his 
mind.  Just  as  he  had  seen  them  as  a  boy 
in  the  little  church,  so  they  lingered  with 
him  in  memory. 

The  town  grew,  and  the  changes  went 
on,  even  the  moving  of  the  congregation 
into  the  big  new  church;  and  Peter's  for- 
tune grew  and  enlarged  until  he  became 
wealthy,  and  his  years  filled  into  his  life 
till  he  became  grey,  and  still  the  picture 
remained  ever  the  same.  There  was  no 
change  in  that. 


31 


t 


OLD      FRIENDS 

At  last,  when  he  was  getting  a  little 
weary  of  his  life's  work,  the  longing  to 
see  the  friends  of  his  boyish  church  days, 
as  they  were  then,  came  upon  him  so 
strong  that  he  journeyed  back  to  his 
cradle-town. 

It  was  evening,  and  as  the  train  swung 
in,  past  the  great  blazing  fires  of  the  oil 
refineries,  the  smell  of  spent  acid  and  pe- 
troleum gas  smote  upon  his  nostrils  like 
the  perfume  of  childhood's  clover-fields. 

The  tears  were  close  at  the  back  of  his 
eyes.  Was  he  not  born  among  all  this? 
Had  his  father  not  toiled  at  the  great  red 
fires,  and  his  mother  breathed  the  same 


3a 


PfiWlll||iLiip.^i    .-111  JiWUWl4iJJ_      ,^^ 


OLD      FRIENDS 

strong  smelling  air  ?  Was  it  not  his  birth- 
place— his  native  land;  and  the  creaking 
machinery  of  the  pumping  rigs,  and  the 
myriad  three-poled  derricks  dotting  the 
landscape  like  skeleton  pyramids,  the 
signs  made  manifest  of  his  nativity? 

He  was  coming  home. 

How  he  wondered  if  he  should  find  any 
of  the  old  friends  in  the  little  church.  // 
would  still  be  there,  for  his  money  had 
ensured  that.  Like  a  friend  it  would  con- 
front him  and  bless  him  for  its  salvation. 

God  had  prospered  him  in  a  foreign 
land,  but  it  was  good  to  come  home  to 
the  place  of  his  humble  child-life. 


33 


te'WHr|||jijjiii  \b!t^^^tmi-.f,^^^ 


'?.i*i'i'^.'»'««,-:ij*/i!^tijfc;iti'-„vr':^tiij.*rt(Ss«nafc-a»j*afi>vJi«i¥niMM^^i.^ 


r 


OLD     FRIENDS 

The  hotel  was  new ;  it  was  not  the  old, 
bulging  board  building  that  had  stood  on 
the  corner  when  he  lived  there  before. 
The  electric  lights,  and  the  glass  doors, 
and  the  modern  glitter  of  the  place  chilled 

him. 

All  the  faces  were  new.  In  the  crowd 
that  thronged  through  the  offices  and 
halls  he  felt  like  a  man  who  struggles 
wearily  across  a  great  plain  alone. 

When  he  had  eaten  he  started  eagerly 
for  the  one  place  he  felt  sure  was  un- 

changed. 

Straight  eastward  through   the   main 


34 


OLD      FRIENDS 

street  he  walked — not  a  building  could  he 
recognize. 

Plate  glass  and  bricks  confronted  him 
where  before  had  been  the  cosy  little  win- 
dows of  the  stores  he  knew  so  well. 

There  on  the  right  old  man  Bishop  had 
sold  him  overalls;  a  little  higher  up  he 
had  bought  good  stout  boots  from  King. 
The  stores  were  new  and  the  keepers 
strangers  to  him. 

He  almost  ran  in  hib  eagerness  to  get 

by  it  all.  It  made  him  feel  so  much  alone 
in  the  world. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  he  could  see  the 
road  winding  like  a  grey  woollen  thread 

35 


Biww.;>%^'^..Ttf:K«p«a^'''>«^-ft':*|p9B«^^ 


H 


OLD      FRIENDS 


r 

i 


across  the  flat;  a  row  of  lamps  glinted 
like  a  string  of  star-beads  by  the  side  of 
it.  On  the  right,  half  way  over,  he  could 
see  the  firm  outline  of  a  square,  sharp- 
roofed  building,  a  spire  cut  the  gloom  o£ 

the  night  sky. 

From  the  gothic  windows  the  bright 
lidits  streamed.  His  heart  gave  a  great 
throb  of  joy.  He  sat  on  the  handrail  that 
guarded  the  high  sidewalk,  and  tried  to 
compose  himself.  He  was  trembling  with 
joyous,  eager  excitement. 

Ah !  this  was  home.  There  were  lights 
in  the  windows  for  him ;  the  church  was 


36 


OLD      FRIENDS 

his  mother;  it  had  sheltered  him  when  he 
was  an  outcast. 

And  now  after  all  those  years  he  had 
come  back  to  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
and  where  all  else  was  cold  and  chill,  the 
church  was  still  there,  and  warm  and 
bright,  and  beckoning  to  him  with  its 
lights. 

Then  he  walked  on  again.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  church,  he  heard  the  shuf- 
fling of  many  feet. 

"It's  prayer  meeting,  I  suppose,"  he 
thought,  **and  the  people  must  be  coming 
out."    But  the  door  did  not  ogen. 


37 


■■■•r'.-t*^.4 


OLD      FRIENDS 


!i  I 


As  he  approached,  the  noise  grew  loud- 
er.   Still  nobody  appeared. 

'1  wonder  if  I  shall  find  the  old  min- 
ister here  still,"  he  muttered  as  he  opened 
the  door. 

On  the  threshold  he  stood  like  a  man 
petrified. 

A  dozen  young  men  were  rushing  and 
tearing  at  each  other  like  gladiators  in  a 
Roman  arena.  High  up  on  the  wall,  just 
where  the  blue  and  gold  pipes  of  the 
organ  had  once  stood,  was  a  queer  ar- 
rangement like  a  fish  net. 

They  were  playing  basket  ball. 

The  chill  that  had  crept  about  his  heart 

3S 


OLD      FRIENDS 

up  in  the  fantastically  decorated  hotel 
again  gripped  him.  Familiar  sights  that 
he  had  expected  were  all  absent. 

Just  over  in  the  corner  to  the  left  was 
where  Deacon  Ball  used  to  kneel  in 
prayer. 

He  remembered  with  a  little  pang  of 
remorse  how  he  had  often  smiled  in  de- 
rision at  the  enormous  feet  of  the  Deacon, 
as  they  stuck  out  in  the  aisle ;  there  never 
was  room  in  the  pew  for  both  them  and 
the  Deacon. 

Now  the  umpire  of  the  game  sat  there 
with  a  little  bell  in  his  hand  which  he 
tinkled  occasionally. 

39 


•lafe^.^ 


OLD      FRIENDS 

Nobody  paid  the  slightest  attention  to 

Peter.  He  closed  the  door  and  trudged 
back  wearily  through  the  hot  spring  night 
to  the  hotel. 

In  the  warm  brisfht  sunshine  of  the 
next  morning  a  little  of  the  cold  thawed 
from  Peter's  heart.  Minister  Grant  was 
still  alive,  he  discovered.  His  benefactor 
had  given  up  the  care  of  the  flock,  and 
was  living  in  silver-haired  peace  where 
he  had  labored  his  good  life  through. 

Peter's  voice  trembled  a  little  when  he 
spoke  of  the  little  old  church — told  that 
it  was  he  who  had  sent  the  funds. 

"Ah!  said  the  minister,  "your  gift  of 


40 


OLD      FRIENDS 

money  was  nothing  to  the  foresight  which 
commanded  us  to  keep  the  old  church  for- 
ever. It  does  more  good  to-day,  per- 
haps, than  the  nev/  building  in  which  our 
people  worship. 

■  "In  it  our  young  men  find  amusement 
and  manly  games  which  keep  them  from 
the  billiard  and  bar  rooms  of  the  hotels. 

"There  seems  to  be  a  charm  about  the 
old  place,  for  they  will  go  there  when  you 
couldn't  get  them  to  attend  a  prayer  meet- 
ing." 

A  great  peace  stole  over  the  heart  of 
Peter. 

God  had  blessed  his  gift. 


41 


